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by sadsparties



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Free Verse, Hand Jobs, M/M, Poetry, Quickies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23852158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: A missing scene from s1e7
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39
Collections: All Well: The Terror April 2020 Fest





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oh, what a pleasure to die by this, by francis’s lips.   
seeking air and suffocating like a man drowned, drowning, being drowned;  
lost in the throes of nibbles and gasps and puffs of air.  
francis’s hair, long and damp with sweat. francis’s hands,  
wringing his jumper and pulling it up, up,  
loose from his trousers so he can meet skin, skin, and warmth, and hot. 

the ground beneath them loose with rocks, finally, after a week’s haul.  
james marching forward, pulling forward.  
there can be no congress in the ice; the wall of ice a blessing,  
the sight of the torn mockery of their flag a blessing,  
the solid ground on their backs a blessing.  
james whimpers as a stone needles at his back, whimpers straight  
into francis’s mouth, shushing him, hushing, breathing life into his very teeth.

beyond their tent, there is nothing. no life and no growth,  
the tired treads of the men disappearing, the clinks of the lanterns fading away,  
absorbed, consumed, drained by the way francis whispers his name.  
 _james, james,_ like a man praying, begging, his tongue tasting like the dirt  
on their faces, like the salt on their feet,  
like the bread he’d seen the papists eating.  
this is my body, this is all of me, take it, sup on it, devour  
what is and always has been yours.

a keening as he asks for more, but no, no, francis has always liked it slow.  
he is so hungry, so thirsty, but francis always finds a way to quench,  
to ease the growling into a rumbling. _there’s time, there’s time,_ he says.  
he takes his time and nips at james’s lips, sighs against his cheek,  
licks the sweat in his temple, presses his palm to james’s heart and hisses,  
for his ears alone, _mine._

_what’s the matter,_ says the nothingness, but the words are reduced  
to floating snippets of sound as francis’s palm slithers downward.  
 _mine,_ he breathes against james’s neck. _mine,_ as he bites on james’s shoulder.  
james’s eyes rolling in their sockets, his hips seeking heat and pressure  
and damp, francis’s urgent breath wet and warm against his lips,  
not a kiss but nearly. nearly, almost,  
close.

rushed steps. 

“it’s mr. morfin. wake the captain!”


End file.
